


The Scarf

by JediBubbles



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:03:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1399033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JediBubbles/pseuds/JediBubbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surana knits Alistair a scarf.  It's not the prettiest thing, and oh Maker, she should probably burn it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scarf

**Disclaimer** : I don’t own Dragon Age. That’s the property of BioWare. Yay for them.

Ailys Surana is my warden. Her hobbies include befriending people she meets in bars, assassination attempts, jail, etc, making things go boom, and joining Alistair in sassing people.

 

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_Maker strike me down if I ever decide to do something like this again_ , Ailys thought venomously as she viciously tied the last knot in the edging of the scarf, throwing it into her lap in disgust. She picked up her crochet hook and stabbed the lumpy, misshapen pile of wool several times, pretending that she could hear its choked death cries. 

Months ago, in bloody Orzammar, she had had the lovely idea of making a scarf for Alistair for their first Satinalia. Crocheting and knitting had been two of the non-magical skills she was good at in the tower. She should have known it was a bad idea from the beginning. 

Wool was a pricey commodity for the dwarves and she had only found two skeins that were soft enough. One was in a brownish shade of puce - she had discovered upon holding it next to Alistair’s face one morning while he'd been asleep, washed him out to the point where he appeared deathly ill. The other was a gray-ish green that reminded her of old pea soup. Neither color was particularly attractive, and combined, they were hideous. Still, she'd bought the skeins for lack of better options, hoping for the best.

Finding time to make the damned monstrosity was a challenge. She stole small gaps of time, from pulling the hook and yarn out while alone in her tent to rushing through her camp duties so she could do a row. The shades were also regrettably hard to see in the dim lighting of her tent, which resulted in some interesting lumps that she muscled through for the sake of speed. It was also wavy like a flamberge. In her hastiness, she had forgot to count her stitches in each row. 

Honestly, she hadn’t even noticed how ugly it was until she had her first evening alone in months at Redcliffe, just after delivering the ashes. By then, it had been too late to fix it or start a new one. And then two days later, they'd left for Denerim. Now, as she looked at the twisted, clumpy wool with the crochet hook popping out like a lopsided marker, she very, very much wished she had made a Gray Warden puppet like she'd originally thought. 

“Stupid practicality,” she muttered. “Stupid Ferelden with its stupid weather and blighted cold.”

_He probably doesn’t even wear scarves for the cold_ , she thought. She gasped in horror. Maker, did he? She ran through her memories of the hike to Orzammar and their trip to the Urn and came up with nothing. Alistair hadn’t worn a scarf once. The only thing he complained about being cold was his feet, and she could confirm their frigidity since he liked to warm them on her legs at night. 

Was it too late for her to burn this to ash and buy him a few pairs of socks? She could also buy him that golem figurine he was talking about the other day. Or was it an ogre? 

The door to her room at Arl Eamon's Denerim home slammed open and shut as Alistair entered with a groan. He greeted her with a relieved, “Thank the Maker, you’re in bed.”

Slowly, she drew the blanket across her lap to hide the scarf as he quickly divested himself of his boots and outer clothes.  
“You were thinking about me in bed during your meeting with Eamon?” she said.

“Yes. It was the only reason I made it through that stupid thing without pitching a fit.” He paused to kiss her when he reached the bed. When he pulled back, he made a comically forlorn face. “Although in my head, you were naked and had a feast ready. I suppose reality will have to do.” 

She snorted and pulled him back to her, one hand at the back of his neck and the other absently rubbing a broad shoulder. He ended the kiss with a satisfied mmph and pleaded, “Will you rub my head? It huurr-rrts.”

He pouted for good measure. Agreeing with a laugh, she gestured to her lap. Alistair eagerly laid his head down, and then quickly shot up, giving her blanketed legs a confused look. With horror, she realized that she forgot the ugly scarf in her lap. Before she could stop him, Alistair moved the blanket and was eyeing it confusedly. 

“Is that a very small dog?” he asked.

“No, don’t worry about it.” She made to shove the pile to the floor but Alistair was faster. He snatched the scarf, hook and all, and scampered off the bed. She grabbed desperately, managing a brief hold on it before Alistair twirled away, holding it above his head out of her reach. 

Face grinning in good humor as he danced around the room with her chasing him, he babbled, “Ooh, what is it? Is it something dirty? Maker, this is soft. I’d love a blanket made of this. Why were you hiding it? Is it yours? Whoops, almost got me.”

They banged about the room for a few minutes in this fashion. Alistair gave her brief hope that she could get it before he moved away at the last second. She ended the pursuit after he stomped across the bed to escape her for the second time. Panting and face flushed, she sat down on the bed and gaspingly moaned, “Oh, fine, you win. It’s for you, you bloody clod.”

Triumphant, he stretched it out, head cocked to the side. She held her breath while he looked between her and the scarf, barely noticing when the crochet hook, somehow staying in during the chase, plinked to the floor. 

“It’s a scarf,” he said slowly, brow furrowing slightly in confusion. 

“Sort of.”

“Did you make it? For me?” he said with his voice oddly high and slightly breathy. 

She buried her blushing face into her hands. “Yes, for Satinalia. But I’ve changed my mind so give it back so I can burn it.”

“Never!”  
She raised her head at his vehemence. He was wrapping the scarf around his neck with a silly, pleased smile on his face, making him look endearingly boyish. It was even uglier on him, and she wanted to rip it off and feed it to the Archdemon. 

“Alistair, that is possibly the most hideous thing in Thedas,” she said in shock. “I’ll buy you a better present. So, c’mon now, give it back.”

His pleased smile turned into a grin as he patted the scarf fondly. “Nope. I won’t give it back. It’s mine now.”

His brown eyes were soft and gentle when they met hers. “It’s the first time someone’s bothered to make a gift with me in mind. I wouldn’t care if you knitted Morrigan’s face into it, I’d keep it.”

Surprised, she frowned, never having thought about the significance of it to him that she would make a gift specifically for him. Giving a resigned sigh, she said, “All right, you win. But don’t show anyone. It’s so ugly it might blind them.” 

“It’s wonderful,” he said, admiring a large lump of yarn near the edge of one end. 

“Take it off and I’ll show you something else that’s wonderful.”

With that, Alistair threw off the scarf and playfully tackled her to the bed. When she woke up the next morning, the scarf had disappeared. It was a week before she noticed that Alistair had taken to wrapping the scarf around his torso beneath his tunic and armor. At her snort, he said that he was using it as armor because no one would dare stab him through such a scarf. Even though she made a smart comment about blood improving its looks, she spent the rest of the day warm and pleased.


End file.
